


Over Sunlight Through Navy Curtains (Hands on my Hips and Breaths on Your Cheeks)

by ohmygoshwhatascream



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Geralt kinda thirsting over Jaskier tbh, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Literally this fic is just Geralt Having Feelings, M/M, Sentimental Geralt, Seriously he has so many feelings, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, but in a soft way, sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:02:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22436836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohmygoshwhatascream/pseuds/ohmygoshwhatascream
Summary: Geralt is awoken to the filter of morning light through the open window.He doesn't know exactly when he got so sappy, but he looks down at Jaskier with a fondness he thought he'd never feel again.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 398





	Over Sunlight Through Navy Curtains (Hands on my Hips and Breaths on Your Cheeks)

**Author's Note:**

> shoutout to my stomach virus for allowing me to have a day off to supply TWO fuckin Geraskier fics in one day. This one is probably super ooc for Geralt bc I wanted to make him soft and then just went all the fuckin way. But, like, I just want them to be happy okay.
> 
> (can technically be seen as a continuation to Rules and Regulations, only because I included the scars Jaskier gets on his ribs in that story but like, its a standalone thing. Also if i make a series i have to come up with a title for the series and like, all my titles are just as long and convoluted as this one)

Geralt awakens to the filter of sunlight through not-quite-closed curtains. The light is bright, the early morning sun beaming down through clear sky. It illuminates the drab dullness of the inn room, revealing the collection of the mismatched decor, cheap furniture and tasteless wallpaper. The navy curtains become alight with crimson glow, the dusty drapes fluttering in the gentle breeze, blown into dancing shapes by the ajar window. He winces at the light, giving the gap between the curtains an icy glare, as if he could send the sun back down and have the moon rise once again. This, of course, does not work. Time is the one thing he has no control over.

With a huff, he shifts slightly, aware of the still-sleeping body against his own. A familiar and warm weight, something that makes him feel grounded, as though - for the first time in his long life - he truly has someone who connects him to the earth he stands on. A reason for survival, a reason to be better. 

The sunlight falls on Jaskier, dappling gold on his smooth skin. It reveals a myriad of little scars, scratches and bruises and bumps, like silver thread sewn beneath sun-touched skin, veins of cuts that never quite healed. They're nothing like the deep gashes of knotted skin or the raised scars that cover Geralt from head to toe. These ones are softer, more gentle. Not made from demons and monsters and creatures of long nights and endless winters. No, these scars were collected from trivial things, like falling out of trees and moments of absent-mindedness and clumsiness. 

Geralt is certain that he knows Jaskier's body better than his own. Every moment he can, he spends his time memorising each and every part of Jaskier. The veins on his wrists, lilac and blue under soft skin, the spattering of freckles on his cheeks that only come out during the summer. He knows the long, white scar that rests just above his thumb. The one that Jaskier had, at first, said he'd received it from a siren who'd befuddled his mind and seduced him out to sea. Later, he'd admitted his hand had slipped when cutting vegetables and the knife had gone straight through his hand. Geralt had looked at him, then, only slightly exasperated. He'd kissed the mark, a moment of sentimentality that he usually tried so hard to hide. Jaskier had flushed a dusky pink upon his high cheekbones, offered a flustered sort of smile - the kind of shy smile that he reserves for moments when Geralt does something unexpected; when he's caught off guard.

But not all of Jaskier's scars are like that. Geralt traces the raised lines across Jaskier's ribs. Three ragged scars, parallel to one another, the perfect shadow of claws. The ones that had never managed to heal properly. There are puncture marks on his shoulders, divots in his skin where a monster's teeth had managed to sink in before Geralt had swiftly felled it. There's more, scars on his thighs and ones down his arms. Nowhere near as many as Geralt's, but enough for them to both remember the danger they find themselves in, more so for Jaskier; who's only human. 

Geralt brings Jaskier closer to him, pulling his body tightly against his own, revelling in the feeling of skin against skin and the intermingling of their breaths. Sometimes, in moments like this, Geralt thinks that they have become  _ one.  _ Become one body, intertwined until it cannot be said where they begin or end. It's sappy and emotional and sickly-sweet, but Geralt has found that bits of Jaskier have gradually rubbed off on him. He  _ wants _ to be sappy, he  _ wants _ to appreciate every single piece of Jaskier while he has the chance, because he  _ knows  _ this can't last. He  _ knows _ that Jaskier's life is fleeting, a temporary thing. Geralt wants to remember all of it. He doesn't want to forget, to  _ regret,  _ when it is too late. 

He watches as Jaskier stirs, lashes fluttering like leaves in a spring breeze as his eyes gradually open. Blue stares into gold, sky into sunlight. Fire and ice, warm and cold and perfect. "Morning." He whispers, voice deep and husky, still laced with the traces of sleep. Jaskier is always quiet in the mornings. Soft and still sleep-ridden and dozy, always wanting to sleep for just a few moments longer. Geralt has never been one for sentimentality, but he finds the whole thing incredibly endearing. Jaskier's hair is ruffled like this, and there are little creases on his arms and face where he's rested against the blankets and duvet. 

Jaskier looks at him, a careful smile turning up the corners of his lips. Almost painfully fond, painfully tender. Geralt looks at him, looks at the lights of his eyes and wonders how he got so damn  _ lucky.  _

He leans forward, lips brushing against Jaskier's own, a touch that, although fleeting, sets his very skin alight. Not with fire, not crazed and passionate and burning, but like the sunlight through the window. Warming and cosy, of comfort and gentleness and everything he'd never had before.

Jaskier returns the kiss, open-mouthed and lazy. It's a bit sloppy, Jaskier still within the remnants of sleep, but Geralt just smiles into it. It's all perfect, everything about this is perfect.

All Geralt can hear is their breathless gasps and the sound of birdsong outside. The entire scene is peaceful, as if nothing could ever be wrong in the world when they can have this. Trapped here, in this bubble of safety, Geralt never wants to leave. Jaskier has made him soft, made him all bungled up with emotions and  _ feelings  _ and such. It does make their adventures more high risk, having connections with others in such a dangerous line of work is always a risk, but Geralt has found that sometimes the risk is worth it. 

But Geralt feels the call of the new day. There will be work to do, somewhere, and they need to get a move on. They need to get going, wake up. Get dressed.  _ Leave _ their little sanctuary, their temporary escape from the rest of the world. 

He shifts, pulling away from Jaskier and preparing to rise, carefully trying to disentangle himself from the other, attempting to remove the arms wrapped about his middle.

A noise of protest rips from Jaskier's chest, an incessant whining sound that Geralt tries to ignore. 

"No." Jaskier moans somewhat pathetically. "Stay here."

He pushes against Geralt's chest and, although Geralt is much stronger than the other, and he could easily have stopped Jaskier in his ministrations, he lets it happen.

He falls back onto the downy mattress and watches as Jaskier traces patterns and pictures on his bare chest with one elongated finger. There's chipped blue polish on his nails, nicely manicured and scrubbed clean.  _ Nice fingers. Nice hands.  _ Geralt watches the finger as it glides smoothly over his skin, breath hitching as Jaskier swirls it over raised skin and healed scars. His touch is gentle, careful. He touches Geralt like he's something precious, something he wants to look after, something he treasures beyond all else. 

Nobody has ever treated Geralt like this. Not for years and years and years. 

People have always been rough with him. Harsh, demanding. Because they can, because he's a witcher and why would he want anything else? Why would he want something soft and gentle and careful?

Sometimes Jaskier is rough too, but only when he asks. Only when he wants him to be.

Most of the time, he's like this. Delicate, all fleeting touches and affectionate strokes. It makes Geralt  _ weak,  _ makes him want to stay here forever and ever, to never leave  _ here _ where everything is calm and peaceful.

Jaskier looks up at him, shifting his body until he's draped over Geralt's.

He's heavier than he looks, it had surprised Geralt the first time they'd been like this. Jaskier was all long limbs and svelte form, slender and tall and graceful. But, as Geralt had come to find out, he had broad shoulders, ones that were usually hidden under his doublets. He had ridiculously long legs, ones that seemed to go on forever and ever, ones he'd wrap around Geralt's waist, let him be picked up and lifted and manhandled to anywhere Geralt wanted him to be. An  _ amazing  _ arse, too. And that  _ sinful _ amount of chest hair. It hadn't taken long for Jaskier to realise Geralt's certain…  _ appreciation  _ for that part of him, and now the bastard never bothered to fully button up his shirts. Annoying prick. Beautiful, gorgeous, annoying prick. 

But he likes  _ this.  _ Jaskier with his arms sliding up to Geralt's neck, legs entangled with his own and chests pressed flush together. 

"Stay here." Jaskier repeats, trying to make his voice appear strong and authoritative. The effect is slightly ruined when Jaskier yawns, blinking sleepily up at Geralt before closing his eyes. 

_ The day can wait,  _ Geralt tells himself as he lets his own eyes slip shut, wrapping his arms around Jaskier once more. 

**Author's Note:**

> me making Geralt thirst over Jaskier's chest hair bc oh my god fuckin Joey Batey's chest hair makes me weak like excuse me illegal


End file.
